


Our Lament

by UnknownPaws



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Obi-Wan, F/M, I am so sorry, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownPaws/pseuds/UnknownPaws
Summary: She wonders, truly, how much of this was for her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigwolfpup/gifts), [TiBun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiBun/gifts).



_He's drunk when he finds her._

Breath reeking of Corellian ale and Alderaanian wine - the source of which she cannot determine outright but feels familiar enough - clothes ruffled and hanging loose in several places too many to be deemed appropriate, hair a mess of tangled ginger brambles and face completely twisted. His manners are a Hutt's pride as he flops unceremoniously onto her and clings to the folds of her dress. Deseperate; he is so _lost_.

 

_He's crying with wounded eyes._

 

Grey once tinted with a happy egg-blue, like the pastel little  eggs left out for the Younglings once a annual holiday, were dull and rusted with hints of shattered glass and tarnished silver. Wet with the sorrow of loss, the forbidden fruit of the temptation tree the Jedi were warned against. She _knows_ \- oh Force, she _knows_ and painfully wishes she didn't - the source of his anguish.

_He's holding onto her like she's the only foothold he has left in this galaxy._

 

She has every right to turn him away. Brush him aside, chastise his behaviour as _unfitting_ for a Jedi _Master_ of his caliber. Turn him loose to the Council and let their teeth and claws sink into his poor bruised and scrapped flesh until it was **_raw_** with understanding, recognition, and reformation. (Because truly, though she suppressed the notion, it was what the Council did best to those who swayed too much off balance on Light's thin tightrope).

 

But she doesn't.

_He stares at her with those **eyes** , eyes she knows well and drowns within. _

 

Her hands instead reach for his face. Her palms are rough and calloused from years of lightsaber handling, with only the Force to act as a balm for her worn skin. His face is rough and calloused from years of windburn, sunburn and _war_. It burns under her fingertips, his cheeks hot with anger and pain. She finds it only within the center of her soul - where secrets of her own lie safe and untouched  - to not flinch and pull back. Darkness is here, in his skin, in his blood. It's touched him. It's bitten and infected him.

 

But she knows him well enough.

 

_He's coughing and whispering words not meant for her but one recently gone. And it hurts._

 

She takes him back to her room. They are alone barely seconds before he's upon her, a mess again. Hands scrabbling for something - some part of her - to hold onto. To give him a grip in this storm of agony he's become swept up in. She shivers, feeling his hands tightly squeeze her arms too tight, as if he were testing her strength, her stamina, her will.   
  
(I am not so rock solid as you believe me to be, Master Kenobi, she whispers in her heart to him).

_He kisses her first, lips clumsy and meaningless. She pretends it's heartburn that makes the lack of feeling between them apparent._

 

Her bed is simple, as is her life. But now, in the dark of the room with windows drawn against the evening sun of Coruscant, there is so much more detail. The grey threads of her mattress magnified so she can count every strand beneath her as he spreads her out like a loose blanket. Her limbs are useless; beneath her lazy hand, close to her face, she can count the tiny nicks and scores in her thumb from accidental recklessness (that shall ne'er be told of) in the field. The feel of his rough hands - matching her own, his and hers set -  running gentle over her smooth legs enlists a tiny mewl of want from her mouth.

 

_He's teasing her, with an air that seems almost normal for them. But she knows otherwise. They were never normal._

 

She glares when he appears in her line of vision to give her a drunken, lopsided grin. It isn't _fair_ that he's the loose one here, when she has to remain sober and strict. Not the thoughts of a Jedi Master, she scolds herself. But the heart cares less about the mind and its reasoning, and she pouts at him even as his tongue does her favourite thing against the curve of her naked collarbone.

 

(Gasps, mewls and wanton moans are certainly _not_ something she does, not at all).

 

_He's crying again, lost to her now until it finishes, and she closes her eyes to acknowledge it._

 

Her heart is beating hard and heavy against her ribs, pressed so close to him that she literally feels herself melt into him. Skin slick with love and regret, for she knows what comes after this night and it is nothing savoury. Eyes meeting and looking away, in want and guilt. This is not for her. It is for _Her_. She knows this. It hurts. But she'll do it.

 

_He knows her sacrifice. He knows why. He knows her. And that's why he came to her. After Her._

 

She's always been selfless to the greater good. To the service of others instead of herself. Even if it meant ripping her soul up into strips for a broken man to use as a makeshift bandage. Because she's meant to mean less than the Force, just a vessel in this life until it grows used and broken and she's carried up and away into eternity and unity of the cosmos. So she was taught.

 

But such lessons she cursed because _dammit_ if she isn't sentient and Mirialan and feels so deeply as he.

 

_He's moving too fast, too much. But not to her - only him. And she can only watch as he replays it all out in his memories again and again, sinking from the pain._

 

Fire burns hot, but this is Hell's eternal pit as she feels sweat form in many a place and her heart threaten to beat hard right out of her bare chest. His hands are everywhere, never staying too long in fear of getting to attached to one particular area. She should take relief, she thinks - the Jedi ethics are still there. Her own voice is lost amidst his screams. He calls out, not her name.   
  
:"SATINE, SATINE!"

 

She pretends it doesn't hurt. She pushes the pain down and locks it away. Like a good Jedi should. He cries out _Her_ name, pretending this is what and who he wants. Not some replacement to fake the pain away with. So she figures. And so she acknowledges.

_He surprises her when his hand finds hers, and tear filled eyes open to shower her with his grief from above._

Her eyes are a royal blue, a colour of elegance and beauty. What she's been told she is. What she does not, and never has, believed. An average Mirialan woman with black hair (silk strands tangled in his fingers), typical eyes (blue, shimming gems he admires), green skin (soft under his touch, smelling of tea and sweet fruit) and tattoos (traced with his tongue, fingers and eyes, geometric beauty marks unique only to her, says he).

 

But as he holds her, the climax of their moment trapped in a heated pause, for the first time in her life she feels _beautiful_.

 

:"Luminara…" he chokes, and she knows at that moment he is seeing her.

 

Truly, for the first time, he is seeing her.

 

_But her heart hurts. And the Jedi cannot feel attached. Or in love._

 

It ends quickly. A finished up teamwork project concluded with him lying sprawled asleep with her in bed. But rest evades her. She stares at his worn face, questioning. Wondering. Doubting. And with little confidence, she gets up and drapes a robe over her body, to conceal. Her bare feet pad over the soft carpet and she _prays_ Barriss hasn't arrived home early to see her in such shame. Lady Luck smiles and grants her this one moment of relief, her Padawan still out in the galaxy alone. She ought to wonder more to where the girl is on this night. But she's a Jedi, and she does not.

 

The fresher is as simple as the bedroom, the typical Jedi layout boring yet symbolic. But this night she finds nothing but dullness in the white walls enclosing her. Her heart is slow and resigned, a tired hum in her chest she barely hears but certainly feels, and she rests a hand to her left breast as she sits on the edge of the tub and watches the night slowly swallow the city.

 

She thinks back. She wonders the geninuity of his word. His touch, sight and sounds. His need for her. What she is to him. She wonders, truly, how much of this was for her. If it was all for _Her_ after all. A loose thought she shakes free. She is a Jedi after all.

 

Let go.

Let it go.

 

She can't.

 

She thinks she feels something, a hand upon her cheek. A hand, soft and tender. A voice, Mandalore accent whispering softly in her ear. Words not meant for her. Reassurances she shouldn't need. But are granted, in due kindness and goodwill.

 

She blinks, the wetness of her eyes now suddenly apparent. And then she smiles. And bids Satine a small nod of gratitude, and a good rest.

 

And returns to bed unplanned and unbothered, the soft fold of Kenobi's body against hers more than she needs on this one and only night.

 

~~(She smells the desert, blood and Kenobi in her sleep. And doesn't know why. Until she awakens and remembers.)~~

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be longer (2 Parts) and based off a prompt I got on tumblr.   
> Instead this happened.   
> So now we have this.   
> (Okay, to be honest, Kenduli is my OTP and it needs more love. So much more love.)


End file.
